


Brotherly Care

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bonding, Brotherly Bonding, Cane, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Gen, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, Non consensual caning, Non sexual caning, Non-consensual caning, Punishment, School, School!lock, Siblings, Teenlock, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds himself in trouble rather frequently at his new prep school, and unfortunately for him, corporal punishment is as yet unbanned at private schools (teen!lock 80's/90's setting). Mycroft does care about him, despite outward appearances. A tube of ibuprofen cream proves that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherly Care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seaholly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaholly/gifts).



For the third time in two weeks, thirteen year old Sherlock Holmes stood outside of the headmaster's office. His back was pressed firmly against the wall, his arms folded elegantly across his chest, his black hair sticking out in an unruly fashion. His uniform was almost impeccable, save the splatter of blood down his crisp white shirt (which had originated from his nose) and the scuff on his black leather shoes. Beside him were two other boys, looking considerably worse off than Sherlock. The three had been stood there since 10:40 that morning, the beginning of their break: it was now almost one.

“The headmaster will see you now.”

Sherlock, who had heard the soft footsteps of the rather fussy, flowery receptionist as well as the crackle of the telephone being placed back down moments before, had anticipated these words. The other two boys, however, both jumped – to be sent to see the headmaster was not a good thing, especially during the first two weeks at a new school, and they had been lost within their heads in whole other worlds.

* * *

 

“I cannot impress upon you three how serious fighting is. Brawling now, when you are only thirteen, can lead to stabbing when you are older and stupider. You are three intelligent boys, stop throwing your opportunities away.”

Sherlock had long tuned out. The headmaster, a thin, weedy man with an impressive silver moustache and a bald head, did little to command his attention, especially when he had sarcastically greeted him,

“Holmes, fancy seeing you here.”

Sarcasm, while funny from his own tongue (in his own opinion), chafed on Sherlock like very few other things could.

He had already deduced what would happen: they would all receive detentions, his father would secretly ask how well the fight went, his mother would scold him but be proud that he defended himself against them and Mycroft would attempt to tell him off.

“Smith, Roberts, since this is the first time you two have been in trouble, you will each have a half-hour detention for tomorrow afternoon. You are both dismissed.”

As the two left the room, Sherlock remained mostly oblivious to the moustache-twiddling and heavy sighing occurring in front of him.

“Holmes.”

Dragging an innocent expression to his face, Sherlock glanced up at the man, though he did not have to glance far: he was barely taller than himself.

“Yes, sir?” he eventually replied, mustering all his acting skills and even managing a small smile.

“Your behaviour in your two weeks here has been frankly abominable.” the man bluntly told him. “Your parents pay good money for you to attend this school, and yet you still find it appropriate to fight, behave rudely to teachers and belittle other students. You have been here for just two weeks, and already some teachers are reluctant to have you in their classrooms. If this were a state school, I wouldn't have this option open to me, for it was banned two or three years ago there. However, as this is a private school, I still have it as my last resort. Hopefully it will straighten you out and the rest of your time here will be peaceful, like your brother's time was.”

Sherlock looked at the teacher with a bemused expression on his face. He was aware of the implied fate, but it had never occurred to him to include it in his deductions. Its use had been rare even in Mycroft's earlier years at the school, before it was even banned in state schools. To think that he was going to receive it within his first two weeks at the school, Sherlock felt a heady mixture of fear, anger and just a touch of scorn that they had lost it with him so quickly. _Idiots!_

The cane.

“You will receive two strokes to your non writing hand, and if you are in here again this term you will be suspended.”

* * *

 

Sherlock's self confidence lead to him painting himself a martyr in the situation in his head. Certainly, he did look the image of piousness as he held out his left hand high in the air, not even a quiver running through him.

"Are you ready, Holmes? If you move out of position, you will receive extra."

Sherlock graced the man with a very slight nod. Truthfully, he was not. He was frightened. On several occasions when he was young he had irritated his mother enough that she would hit him, and that had hurt enough from just an open palm. Surely, with the small, condensed surface area of the cane, this would be significantly more painful. To his hand, too! All bone and muscle, with very little fat to pad the area out, unlike his bottom. Sherlock was lost in these thoughts when the first stroke came down, crashing down on his palm hard enough that he jumped a little. A moment of insignificant pain struck him, and the thought of ' _I can cope with this_ ' came to mind, before the true sting kicked in.

Sherlock wasn't particularly one for swearing, but all he could think was ' _Fucking hell!'_

As if sensing that left to his devices much longer Sherlock would start spewing profanity, the headmaster quickly doled out the second stroke. As soon as the cane landed, Sherlock withdrew his hand, clasping it in his other one.

"Holmes, what did I tell you about moving out of position?"

Gross horror overtook Sherlock as he realised the implications of his actions. He was going to get another one! Sensing that it wasn't the time for a tantrum (which he could feel building up inside of him), Sherlock took a sharp breath before quickly replying,

"You said that if I moved out of position I would receive extra, but sir, you had already-"

"I hadn't given you permission to move out of position. Raise your hand again - you will receive one more."

"Sir, that's really not fair - you had already completed my punishment!"

"Now, Holmes, we don't have all day."

Sherlock immediately calculated that he had no chance of leaving the room without taking the extra stroke, and that if he pushed the man much further, it'd be more than one. Reluctantly, and with an extremely burdened sigh, he raised his sore hand again. The third stroke was not as hard as the previous two, for the headmaster was not a brutal man, nor a cruel one, just an old man stuck in his ways dealing with a frustrating boy.

“I will inform your mother whilst you are in afternoon lesson. You may go now.”

Ten minutes later, when Sherlock began to write notes during History (a lesson he generally didn't bother with, but the threats of his headmaster rang in his ears), the pain really struck him hard. Sharp stinging, with an underlying dull throb that told him he was going to have some sore bruising by the next morning. At least it wasn't in his writing hand, however: Sherlock knew that there would have been no way he could have written with this agony. He doubted that he'd be able to hold his knife at dinner that night. That did not hurt him as much, however, as an imagined image of Mycroft laughing at him which suddenly jumped into his head.

* * *

 

Tersely, Sherlock closed his eyes as the wash of shouting covered him. He had barely stepped through the door before it started.

“Sherlock Holmes, you have been at that school for _two weeks_ and your headmaster has already had to cane you! Two weeks! Mycroft was there for five years and he was never caned!”

Sherlock felt his canine teeth on the left side of his mouth gently nibbling the flesh of his cheek and the taste of blood swelled in his mouth.

“Yes, mother.” he quietly responded. The trouble that he had been in in his entire school career had all began because he was either bored or being picked on. No one, however, had seemed to accept that as a reasonable explanation, and it was frustrating.

“Don't you 'yes mother' me! You go upstairs to your bedroom right now and get your chemistry set, and you can have it back when you learn to behave – and maybe an afternoon in your bedroom by yourself will teach you a little faster!”

Sherlock loved his mother, he truly did. She loved him unconditionally _and_ bought him books about science and maths. However, she was very inclined to take a hard line with him, especially after Mycroft had been a virtually perfect child. He could count on one hand the number of times Mycroft had been in trouble at home during his own lifetime. It'd take a whole army's hands to show the amount of times he himself had been.

* * *

 

_Knock knock._ For once, Sherlock had not heard the warning signs of someone at his bedroom door, and was unsure of who it was. He had been too busy pacing his room and angrily muttering about boredom to hear the heavy footsteps, nor the sigh from outside of the door.

“Come in.” he shortly said, before throwing himself lightly down onto his bed. His hand was really beginning to throb painfully by that point, and bruising was already evident underneath the three raised welts, along with slight swelling. His scientific mind was interested enough to block out some of the pain, but the deeper pain was not easy to distract himself from.

“Hello, brother mine.”

Mycroft.

“Piss off, Mycroft.” Sherlock easily replied, dragging his uninjured hand away from the injured one. He didn't want Mycroft to see that it hurt. 

“Hurts, doesn't it?” Mycroft's smug expression was enough to make Sherlock pick up a book from his and throw it half-heartedly. Mycroft caught it easily, but his expression softened slightly when he saw how thoroughly miserable his younger brother was.

“I came here to give you this.” Mycroft off-handedly told his brother, before tossing a small tube to Sherlock. Some kind of ibuprofen cream. “If you put it on it will reduce the swelling and-”

“Yes, I know the effects of ibuprofen, Mycroft! I'm not an idiot!” Interrupted Sherlock. However, he couldn't keep the small smile from his face. “I could have gotten this myself if I'd wanted it.”

“I can always take it back to the bathroom, then...”

“No! No, Mycroft, I'll take it back myself in a while.” Sherlock hastily replied. 

“I'll leave you to it, then. Don't tell mother that I gave you that – I think she's planning on bringing you some ice for your hand in a while, and she may not be best pleased if she realizes that I've already helped you. I believe she wanted you to stew for a while before she forgave you.”

Before Mycroft swooped out of the room, he turned back to face Sherlock and quickly said,

“I know how much it hurts, Sherlock, I got it myself once.”

* * *

 

Two years and six canings later, Sherlock was lying on his side on the bed (his canings had quickly been promoted to the seat of his trousers) when the door rapped once more and Mycroft appeared. The question that had burned in the fifteen year old's mind for two long years rose to the surface once more, and before he could easily accept the ibuprofen cream, he quickly asked,

“Mycroft, when were you caned? I don't remember it happening, and I remember everything.”

Mycroft laughed. He had seemed to laugh less since he had joined the government, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice the thread of pleasure that he felt upon hearing it. “It was during my second year. I was caught smoking, an offence generally leading to suspension or even expulsion, but I begged for another chance and I was given one, along with six whacks.”

Sherlock smirked. “Why does mother not know this? Six on your first go...impressive.”

“Due to my excellent record, the school refrained from telling her, and yes, indeed. Six was rather above the average for a first, I believe. I was, however, rather seriously in trouble.”

The tube was tossed and landed in Sherlock's hands a moment later, and just as Mycroft went to leave, Sherlock asked,

“Mycroft, why do you always come here when I'm in trouble? You live fifty miles away.”

“I am obliged to see mother and father on occasion, and your headmaster calls me whenever you are in trouble so that I can calm mother down. It seems to me to be logical to visit whenever both you and mother need me to.”

Sherlock didn't dispute that he needed him.

Mycroft would have known he was lying, anyway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is gifted to seaholly because it's sort of a bit similar to the universe she has created in her Guiding Hand series (which, if you haven't read, you NEED TO) and because she inspired me to write it in the first place.


End file.
